by Will Hubbell
If Joe saw the nightstalker, he gave no sign of it. He walked silently, his face a dull mask to hide his pain. Though Joe tersely rebuffed Rick and Con's expressions of concern, they grew more and more worried about him as the morning passed. At lunch, Joe barely ate. After-ward, his slow pace slackened to a shamble. After a few, painfully slow miles, Rick halted. Snow had begun to fall more heavily, and Joe was so far behind he was only a shadowy gray shape. Rick cursed himself for his lack of attention. Con caught up with Rick and slumped down on a log, her face drawn. Together they waited for Joe. He approached with an unsteady shuffle. Each step seemed to require painful effort. His face was flushed. Despite the cold, he was perspiring.
"We're making camp now," said Rick.
"No, no," said Joe in a weak voice. "It's too early. I'm ... I'm fine." Con took off her sock mitten and felt Joe's brow. "You're burning with fever!" She looked into his eyes and saw pain and growing confusion.
"I'm. . . I'm sorry," said Joe in a slow, tiny voice. "I let you down." His eyes welled with tears of frustration as snowflakes melted on his hot, sad face.
33
"SEPSIS," RICK SAID TO CON IN A HUSHED VOICE, AS THEY
looked for a site to pitch the tent. Joe sat on a burnt log nearby, staring blankly at the snow.
"What?"
"Blood poisoning," said Rick. "Who knows what germs that thing had in its mouth."
"What can we do?"
"Keep him comfortable and let his body fight the infection. That's about all."
"Will he be all right?"
"I don't know," said Rick. When he saw Con's reaction, he quickly added, "Joe's tough. If anyone can beat this, he can."
Rick spotted the black hulk of a huge toppled tree in the distance and suggested that they erect the tent there. "We can build our campfire by the tree trunk and use it to reflect heat into the tent opening. It will serve as a windbreak,' too."
As Rick dragged the travois to the tree, Con led Joe to the site. He no longer pretended that he was not ill, but passively let her support him as he shuffled through the snow. His mind was succumbing to the fever, and he scarcely knew what was happening. Rick and Con quickly erected the tent and made it as comfortable as possible, though they had little to work with. The travois's small platform of woven sticks was cov-ered with the hide poncho to serve as a bed. Con cradled Joe's head on her lap and patted the perspiration from his brow with her sleeve. Rick used the remaining wood to build a fire just a few feet from the tent opening. Only the kindling was left.
"I've got to find some driftwood," he said, handing Joe's spear to Con before grabbing his own. "I'll be back as soon as possible."
"Okay," said Con distantly.
Rick did not reflect on the irony of looking for driftwood in the middle of a forest. The only unburnt fuel was wood that had been in the river before the fire struck. Every dirt-caked branch he found on the riverbank was a rare find. He walked half a mile before he accumulated a small armload. He returned, added wood to the blaze, then cradled Joe while Con went to the river and tended to her needs. After Con left, Rick gently shook Joe until he opened his eyes. "Joe, I need to ask you something."
"What?" asked Joe faintly.
"Is there something about the island I should know? Some-thing you haven't told me?"
"The island?"
"Why didn't you want to go there?"
"Don't," whispered Joe.
"Don't what?"
"Don't let Con ..." Joe furrowed his brow in puzzlement and confusion.
"What about Con?"
Joe stared at Rick without comprehension. "You're not Con." After a minute, he closed his eyes and returned to a fitful sleep.
Con returned with washed rags and a few sticks of drift-wood. "There's not much wood out there," she said. "How are we going to keep him warm?"
"Look for driftwood farther downriver and hope we get lucky," replied Rick. "I was stupid to leave the bedding. He would have been much warmer with it."
"That bedding filled an entire travois!" said Con. "I'll tell you the same thing you told me—stop blaming yourself. You made the best decision for the situation. You didn't know Joe would get hurt."
"I'm the guide," said Rick.
"That doesn't make you omniscient," retorted Con. "So, are you going to look for more wood, or am I?"
"I'll go."
Rick hurried to gather as much driftwood as he could be-fore it grew dark. While he searched, he racked his brain trying to think of ways to improve the bedding. The stark reality was that the fire had consumed everything that was soft and insulating. It'll take a miracle for me to find some-thing, he thought. On his third trip for wood, he walked sev-eral miles downriver and barely found the campsite in the gloom. No miracle had occurred—they would sleep on the small, lumpy platform.
"Joe woke up while you were gone," said Con in a hurt voice. "He thought we were on the island."
"What did you tell him?"
"That I was taking care of him, but... but..." Con burst into tears and finished her sentence haltingly. "... he said ... he said I was a rich bitch ... and didn't know anything."
Rick entered the tent and gently embraced Con. She con-vulsed with sobs as she tenderly cradled Joe's feverish head. "You know he didn't mean it," Rick said softly. "He's de-lirious, and you're exhausted." He held her for a long time while she cried herself out. When she calmed, he asked, "Are you hungry?" A ghost of a smile came to her face. "That's a silly ques-tion."
Rick was too tired to make broth and simply cooked the frozen meat on the coals. They ate, then tried to sleep. The night was mercifully calm, and the tree trunk radiated the tiny fire's warmth into the tent. Joe was unable to sleep sitting up, so Con and Rick lay on either side to keep him warm. The lumpy travois platform kept their torsos off the frozen ground, but not their legs. Despite the cold and dis-comfort, they fell into an exhausted sleep.
They were awakened by Joe, who suddenly sat bolt up-right. He turned around to face the glowing embers and the darkness surrounding them, accidentally kicking Rick in the process. Joe was oblivious that he had done so. His attention was fixed on some unseen vision.
Joe laughed loudly, and his sweat-bathed face broke out into a grin. "Well, well, well, if it isn't Peter!" Con shook Joe's shoulder and called his name.
He turned briefly in her direction. "Shh! Mr. Green has something to say." Joe listened to the darkness. "You didn't want me to come," he answered. His grin grew broader.
"Now why would I want to do that?"
Joe heard the night's reply. "No... No," he said. "You see, I know where that probe goes. I always knew. Sam told me."
The grin left Joe's face, and it hardened. "It's too late."
After a few moments of silence, he grew angry. "You can't scare me!" he shouted. "You can't hurt anyone now! You're in Hell!"
The anger left Joe's face and was replaced by a look of consternation. "No ... No!"
"You," he said in a small voice. Frantically, he turned toward Con and tried to shield her from his vision.
"Don't look!" he cried in anguish.
Con could feel Joe's hot, moist hand tremble as it covered her eyes. After what seemed like a minute, he sighed deeply, and his hand left her face. Joe's vision had departed. He gently folded his good arm around Con and pressed her head to his burning cheek. "I wish you hadn't seen that," he whis-pered.
"Seen what?"
"You were never supposed to know." Joe began to cry with deep wrenching sobs that jerked his body like blows. His words came out like gasps. "I'm ... sorry ... Con. I'm... so ... sorry." The animation drained from Joe's face as he was overwhelmed by exhaustion. He stopped crying. Rick and Con gently lowered him down to rest. As he fell asleep, he murmured over and over again, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Con lay down quickly and feigned sleep to avoid discuss-ing Joe's hallucination with Rick. She felt she had to sort things out herself. Con pondered what had just occurred, try-ing to decide if it was a meaningless delusion or t
he reve-lation of a terrible secret.
Am I lying next to the man who caused my father's death! she wondered. It seemed possible, even probable. It would explain a lot. Yet the explanations led to deeper confusion. She had grown to love Joe. If my suspicions are true, what does he deserve? My hate? My forgiveness? My pity? My love
? Sometimes, she felt he deserved them all.
And Daddy? What about him? She could remember him promising Sara to return. Did he make me the same promise? Con couldn't remember. She was unsure if it even mattered, her father kept so few promises. What does Daddy deserve? She didn't know. She felt empty. Her emptiness made her feel guilty.
The night dragged on as the turmoil in Con's mind fought with her body's exhaustion. Sometimes she slept, and the turmoil invaded her dreams. She saw the shade of her father standing outside the tent.
"Don't call me Daddy," it said. "Call me sir." In another dream, Joe stood in the dark, hold-ing a cake covered with peaches. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm so sorry." When a dream woke her, the wearing round of questions renewed until, tired and answerless, she fell to dreaming again. Other things also conspired to keep Con from resting. The fire would die down, and the cold would wake her. Rick would feed the fire, and that would wake her also. Joe cried out in pain whenever something touched his wounded arm. Twice, he shivered so violently that he woke her. When light returned, Con felt she had scarcely slept.
Rick woke with the light and used the last of the driftwood to build the fire up. He set up the skin to make broth. Once again, it would be necessary to stretch their rations. The nightstalker had been starving and had yielded little meat. He looked at Con as she stared bleary-eyed from the tent. Dark circles surrounded her eyes. He hoped their sunken appear-ance was an illusion caused by the circles, but her cheek-bones seemed sharper also. She dully watched him cook without saying anything. Joe still burned with fever, and his flesh, too, seemed to be melting away. Rick could tell they were not going any-where that day. His best strategy would be to gather drift-wood. He thought that he could rig something with the travois poles and strips of cloth to carry bigger loads of wood. The warm broth seemed to perk Con up a little. She woke Joe and patiently fed him broth from the cupped palm of her hand. Joe was dazed and confused throughout his meal and went to sleep soon afterward.
"Sleep's the best thing for him," said Rick. "You look like you could use more, too."
"I kept thinking about what he said last night," said Con.
"He was out of his head," said Rick. "It was meaningless babble."
"He thought Green was here," said Con. "Daddy, too, I think."
"So?"
"Don't play dumb with me," said Con irritably. "Surely it's crossed your mind, too. Joe tricked Green and Daddy into that probe, knowing it wouldn't take them home."
"You don't know that."
"Well, he lied to somebody," replied Con. "Either to Green and Daddy or to you and me. He told us the probe wouldn't take us back."
"It's a side of Joe I don't want to think about," said Rick.
"But I have to," said Con. "It's eating me up."
"There are so many possibilities," said Rick. "Joe helped Green... Joe tricked Green... Green tricked Joe. It's point-less to think about it. All I know is that Joe helped us."
"It's not your father we're talking about," retorted Con.
"You're right," admitted Rick. "It's not." He pondered the situation for a minute before he spoke again.
"I'm going to have to get more wood. I plan to make a quick trip to get enough to keep the fire going while I make a long one to really stock up. I'll be gone most of the day. Considering what you suspect, how do you feel about staying with him?"
"I'll manage," said Con.
Rick removed the two travois poles from the platform and tore strips of cloth from the scraps of a shirt to use in tying driftwood to the poles. When that was done, he bade Con good-bye and headed for the riverbank. The fire was almost completely out before he returned.
"How's Joe?" he asked.
"Still sleeping, but he doesn't look good. Even without taking off his jacket, I can tell his arm's all swollen. It smells bad, too, and he's still really hot."
"Maybe we should look at his arm," said Rick.
The "jacket" consisted of two shirts stuffed with night-stalker down. Joe's arm had swollen until it was jammed in the sleeve like a sausage in a casing. The only way to remove the jacket was to cut it off. Yet, Rick and Con knew, once they had done that, they couldn't really treat the arm. They had only water and rags to fight the infection. All they would accomplish would be to deprive Joe of the jacket's warmth. In the end, they decided to leave it alone.
The most effective thing they could do was to maintain a fire to keep Joe warm. Con tended the fire and Joe, while Rick searched for more wood. He had been gone for almost an hour when Joe began to stir. Con lifted him partly upright and held a water bottle to his hot, dry lips. Joe drank, then slowly opened his eyes. "Con," he said in a hoarse voice.
"How do you feel?"
"Been better."
"Joe?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you remember last night?"
"It's all fuzzy."
"You said something about the probe Green and Daddy left in."
A stricken look came to Joe's face. "I did?"
"Joe, you must tell me the truth. I need to know where that probe went."
"No you don't."
"I know you're afraid to tell me. You think that... that I'll hate you if you do." A look of profound sadness crept over Joe's face, and he turned his head to hide his tears.
"I won't hate you," said Con. "I just need to know."
"I'm sorry, Con," whispered Joe.
"Where did it go?"
"Nowhere."
"Nowhere?"
"Only data returns to the future. The probe self-destructs."
"Oh," said Con quietly.
Joe began to cry softly. "I'm sorry, Con," he said between sobs. "I'm so sorry. Green would have never gone without him. I tried to make it up to you. I'm sorry."
Con looked at Joe and knew she could never hate him.
She was still confused, but one thing was clear to her—she must soothe Joe's anguish.
"I forgive you."
His look of sorrow faded. "You do?" he asked like a hope-ful child.
"He left me, Joe. He left by his own free will. But you stayed. You took care of me." Joe's face grew peaceful. "Yeah," he said faintly. "I took care of you." He slowly sank down and slept. RICK WALKED ALONG the riverbank, collecting driftwood as rapidly as he could. When he accumulated a small armload, he set it in a prominent place for pickup later, then headed off, carrying only the travois poles. By that means, he hoped to accumulate enough wood to make a large load. It was important to collect as much fuel as possible, for there was food for only one more meal. The only thing that stymied Rick's efficient plan was a scar-city of wood. He had already picked the riverbank clean for several miles from the camp. When he reached virgin territory, driftwood was still scarce. Since he would carry a load only on the return trip, Rick's gathering technique allowed him to cover distance more quickly. Before too long, he was miles downstream and approaching a bluff that towered over the river. It was the highest landmark in the flat landscape. If I climb it, he thought, maybe I can see where we are. Rick left the poles by the river and began to ascend the bluff. He climbed despite his concern that the delay might cause him to get caught by the dark as he returned to camp. The risk seemed justified, for it was his first chance to study the trail ahead. Viewing conditions were ideal. No snow was falling and the dark gray of the sky had not yet begun to deepen.
Rick ascended the bluff and was rewarded for his effort beyond his wildest hopes. The river flowed through the snowy landscape until it crossed a dark, wavy line toward the horizon. The line had the appearance of debris left on a seashore at high tide. Even from this distance, it was plain that the line was the high-water mark of the tsu-nami
. Beyond the line lay the sea.
For the first time since Joe had become ill, hope re-turned to Rick's heart. The sea was no longer a distant goal. He could see it. From where he stood, he could make out the spire of Montana Isle near the horizon. Upon it, he envisioned scientists like himself—people with medicine for Joe, food for Con, and the means to return them all home. Enough wood for a hundred signal fires lay in the mounds deposited by the tsunami. It seemed to him to be a sign that this harsh world was relenting and loosening its grip on them.
With energy born from hope, Rick headed down the bluff to collect his wood. Even when the poles bent under the heavy load, his light heart sped him along. There was still light when he returned to camp. As he approached the campsite, Rick was puzzled to see that the fire had gone out despite the fact that there was still wood. He dropped his load and rushed to the tent. When he peered in inside, Con was cradling Joe's head as she slowly rocked back and forth. Joe appeared to be peacefully sleeping.
"Con?"
She looked up at Rick. Tears had made pink trails on her grimy face. Con blinked to clear her eyes.
"Joe's dead," she said.
34
THERE WAS NO DOUBT THAT JOE WAS DEAD. RICK HAD
felt his cooling wrist for a pulse and found none. His bearded face had assumed the rigidity and stillness of sculpture. His voice, so full of humor, was silent. Everything told Rick that Joe was dead, yet Rick's mind could not form a vision of the world without him. For a while, Rick lived in two worlds: the familiar one, with Con and Joe, and the alien one, where Joe lay still in the tent.